THE CHOSEN : The Youth: Historical Fiction (The Chosen Trilogy Book 1)

by Shlomo Kalo

  “You didn’t want to,” the young man retorted without changing the tone of his voice.

  The older man appraised him with a glazed look in his eyes:

  “There were other prophets,” he pointed out mildly – “and they prophesied otherwise.”

  “They prophesied what you wanted them to prophesy. If you had listened to the voice of your God, you would have recognised their deception.”

  “That voice didn’t sound like the voice of my God!”

  “Because you didn’t believe it. You trusted in yourself – instead of trusting in Him.”

  “Perhaps,” the older man sighed. “Everything is possible. Now, from a distance, things look different. I often examined my own mind, taking stock of myself, and some voice told me I was in error and my error was very grave – in that I refused to listen to the words of the man from Anathoth and to see in him the prophet of truth, but this voice faded and was quickly silenced. I stopped my ears from hearing. I was afraid of it. It was convenient for me to go with my friends and my relatives and – with the king! Are we not told, the voice of the masses is the voice of Shaddai?” He tried to grin, but the pain prevented this. He pursed his lips and ground his teeth. Drops of sweat sparkled on his narrow, wrinkled forehead. He wiped away the sweat with a kerchief.

  “We have all sinned and done evil,” Gershon went on to say after a short silence – “but we don’t want to believe that we are no longer the people of God, that God is not with us, that He has abandoned us and turned His face away from us.”

  “God does not abandon anyone,” the other declared and added – “but He doesn’t force Himself on one who does not want Him.”

  “What does that mean, not wanting Him?” Gershon asked, fervently.

  “Not keeping His commandments and making a mockery of His law.”

  “What you say is the truth!” Gershon responded after a pause for deliberation, looking up again at the void beneath the tattered canopy above him. “You are as wise a man as your father – and as brave!” He thought for a moment and then continued: “You need to know – I was told about your father’s last moments. I heard it from an eye-witness. One of the king’s slaves who was with the minister Naimel in the king’s deserted palace, and fled for his life when the Chaldeans attacked them. The slave hid in a stone chest in the great hall that was used as a store for weapons, and he saw it all. And he couldn’t help, or as I have no doubt you would say,” – a bitter smile showed on the narrator’s face – “he didn’t want to help. The fact is, he was simply terrified… and when the Chaldeans had left the king’s palace he slipped away and found refuge in my house. I have a large house, not far from the palace,” the older man explained. If you want to know the whole story, I shall tell you,” he offered, turning to look at him with his colourless eyes. The hair of Gershon’s head was sparse as was his beard, and both were flecked with grey. His eyebrows thick, his expression sombre, and presumably this was how he had been even before he was injured. His body was lean, exceptionally lean, his cheekbones protuberant, and it seemed that the dark grey skin was their only protection.

  He did not reply.

  Gershon looked up again at the void above him and without waiting for a response from the youth, continued as if talking to himself:

  “The slave, Manasseh by name, hid in that stone chest at the end of the great hall and against his will, truly against his will, he was a witness to all that happened.

  “In the stone chest he was hiding in, there was a narrow slit at his eye-level, and through this he watched and saw it all, without intending to, as if he was compelled by some demon, commanding him: Behold and see, and shame and torment of heart will be your lot, from now until the end of your days upon this earth.

  “The minister Naimel, mighty warrior that he was, fought ferociously against his assailants. At first there were six or seven of them, as the others were hunting for fugitives in the royal palace, in the parlours and the bed-chambers and the gardens. His back to the wall, the minister prevailed over his attackers and slew them. His trusty, battle-tested sword flashed back and forth, swift as lightning and just as deadly. Anyone who approached him was laid low by his sword, and when three knights attacked him all at once, in the twinkling of an eye not one of them was left alive. And it seemed that in just a moment the minister Naimel would carve himself a way through the hall and make his escape from the Chaldeans. And then two more of the Chaldean warriors rushed at him.

  “‘That long moment, that long fateful moment,’ Manasseh the slave was crying to me, repeating it like a constant refrain – ‘if I had burst out from the stone chest where I was hiding like a panic-stricken rabbit, if I had come out uttering a blood-curdling yell and taken my stand beside the minister Naimel! Just then, you see, there were only those two warriors to contend with, and I still had my sword at my hip and in a corner of the stone chest there was a spear that had been left behind. If I had come out of my hiding-place at that fateful moment, it’s very likely the minister Naimel would still be with us, and I would have delivered my miserable soul from everlasting shame! How I wish I had been slain beside him! How I wish I had been slain!’

  “And then the two of them uttered a cry fit to shake the foundations of the universe and it was answered by an echo, and at that moment Chaldeans seemed to pop up from every corner, in full armour and with drawn swords, and they streamed into the hall. And some of them had little bows, and were shooting arrows at the minister Naimel. The minister did not flinch or fail, but fought on, the sword flashing in his hand and sowing terror and death among the enemy, with three arrows in his body, two in the belly and one in the chest.

  In the ranks of the Chaldeans there were two officers who stormed at him in a rage, refusing to believe that anyone with three arrows in his body would still have the strength to stand and resist his assailants…”

  It was hot in the wagon, the air stagnant and heavy, and the jolting never ending. Some of the youths jumped out to join Hananiah, walking alongside.

  “So they rushed upon him, those Chaldean officers,” – Gershon continued his account, with no change in the tone of his voice – “and they were killed there and then. The head of one of them flew off and hit the wall, smearing his blood all over it, the other was run through the heart. For a moment – according to the eye-witness – the Chaldeans withdrew, stunned and confused at the spectacle unfolding before their eyes. In the opinion of the secret watcher, in this retreat of the Chaldeans there was an element of respect, besides the incomprehension and the fear. And then from behind them there appeared a veritable man-monster, a giant who would have dwarfed even Goliath the Philistine himself, and on his shoulder he was carrying a great stone ball, evidently a capital torn from a wrecked marble pillar. The giant hurled his ball at the minister Naimel, and the witness was sure that he must have been crushed beneath it. But he quickly realised that the man-monster had missed his mark, or the intrepid warrior had stepped aside just in time, and the stone failed to hit him. But then the monster charged at him, and the minister fought him ferociously, hacking at his legs with his sword until the giant fell face-forward to the floor, sprawling on him full-length and pinning him down with his body. At that moment hordes of Chaldeans joined the attack with wild cries and deafening yells, slaying both the man-monster and the saint of Israel trapped beneath him, the minister Naimel.” With his narrow little hand Gershon wiped away two tears that had fallen from his colourless eyes, and he was silent.

  Besides them, sitting at the front of the wagon were Azariah and Adoniah, out of earshot of the narrator – not that they seemed to be paying any attention.

  “Something else I shall tell you,” – Gershon suddenly resumed – “when that man, that slave Manasseh, told me what he told me, because he couldn’t keep to himself what his eyes had seen, I felt a strong urge to strike him, if not with a sword, then with some implement or other, to stun him for a moment and see him sprawling helpless at my feet. And he, this unha
ppy slave, this Manasseh, sensed this – and how do you suppose he responded?” A note of curiosity crept into Gershon’s agitated voice, and he turned to face the young man who was listening to his words, silent and unflinching.

  “Don’t you want to guess?” he exclaimed, knitting his brows in a supreme effort to control himself.

  The narrator went back to staring into the void above him, the canopy of the wagon which never stopped flapping for a moment.

  “I asked because I reckoned you would never guess, any more than me, any more than any rational and reasonable man. This Manasseh,” – Gershon continued smoothly – “all of a sudden and without any warning – fell on his knees and barked at me like a dog: ‘Do it, Gershon Ben-Caleb Ben-Judah, do it, I’m begging you!’ And he wailed a piteous wail and broke into bitter weeping, the like of which I have never heard, nor ever hope to hear again. And he kissed the floor at my feet, and cried again: ‘I wish I had died before I saw with my own eyes what I saw!’ And he was wailing and sobbing at my feet, and yelling: ‘Do this, Gershon Ben-Caleb Ben-Judah, do it if you’re a man!’ And I, you understand, couldn’t do it, not that I didn’t want to – I couldn’t, I wasn’t capable. And I don’t regret this, I don’t regret it in the slightest! I just feel sorry for that poor wretch. I have no doubt he was seeking his death and perhaps – since then he has found it. If it is so, let us pray to the Lord to have mercy on his soul and relieve him of that terrible burden.

  “I shall join in that prayer of yours, and entreat my Father in Heaven and my God, not to abandon his unhappy soul but to grant him absolution.”

  The older man gave the youth a lingering, wondering look.

  “I wish there were more in Israel like your father and yourself, men of compassionate and steadfast heart!” he said.

  For a long moment silence reigned beneath the canopy of the wagon.

  “And how has it come about,” the youth asked, in a serene tone of voice – “that the Chaldeans have seized you and exiled you to Babylon as a tanner? Surely you are a calligrapher of scrolls, and the Chaldeans are not fools!”

  “You are absolutely right,” the older man replied and added: “They are not the world’s brightest people, but they are not total idiots either.”

  “And yet?” the youth pressed him.

  “As far as the Chaldeans are concerned,” – the man turned to him with a smile, half cunning and half bashful sketched in his eyes, his bluish lips tensed – “Gershon Ben Caleb Ben Judah does not exist. They know of no such man! If you ask, they will tell you that my name is Jacob Ben Eliezer, the tanner.”

  “And there really is a tanner of that name?” he asked him, as if guessing what lay behind this statement.

  “A tanner born and bred!” the other confirmed and went on to explain: “He is my brother-in-law, brother of my wife who passed away some ten years ago. The most wonderful among women was my wife – lovely as a gazelle, industrious as an ant, wise as a queen and yet, the Lord of all the worlds claimed her and took her from my embrace.”

  “That’s no way for a man of faith to talk!” – he interrupted him gently

  The one sprawled on his back once more turned to the youth with a look of wonder:

  “You are right, of course!” he declared – “And I regret my over hasty tongue! This brother-in-law of mine is also a fugitive from the Chaldeans, and he came to seek refuge in my house. He has two sons, both of them adults, who fled from Jerusalem in time and found safety in Edom, with their great-uncle who was of Edomite origin but converted in the end and became one of the people of Israel. I am childless, and this brother-in-law of mine, Jacob Ben-Eliezer, besides his two grown-up sons has five more, three sons and two daughters, the oldest of them nine years old and the youngest of all – not yet turned two. Anyway, the man was on the run from the Chaldeans who were on his trail, intent on including him in the convoy of exiles due to leave Jerusalem a few days hence.

  “Before dawn the man knocked on my door, and when I opened it for him, he pleaded with me in a tremulous voice:

  “ ‘Please, my brother, my dear friend, may the Lord be your helper and make your ways straight, and preserve you from sickness and from foe, and prolong the days of your life in this world, so you shall know joy and peace and riches, and you shall be truly blessed!’ All these salutations and we are still standing on the threshold, he trembling and I mystified, and then he suddenly bursts out with the cry: ‘Save me dear brother from the Chaldeans, hide me in your house that the Lord gave you in His bounty! I have a wife and young children, and how can I abandon them and go into exile in Babylon, never to see them again, nor they to see me!’ And his eyes filled with tears.

  “I brought him into my house, locked the door behind him and pointed to the hiding-place, a dark alcove in the corner of the cellar that was used for storing winter firewood. As he was still on his way down the steps, and I closing the trapdoor behind him, there was a thunderous knocking at the main door, almost enough to uproot it from its hinges.

  “I ran to the door, scared, a big oil-lamp in my hand, and asked who was there. The answer came in the Aramaic language: ‘In the name of the King of Kings Nebuchadnezzar, conqueror of the universe, open at once if you value your life.’ I valued my life.

  “Seven men burst in, armed from head to foot, two of them wielding blazing torches.

  “‘Where is the tanner, Jacob Ben-Eliezer?’

  “Thoughts were running riot in my feverish mind: if I say He’s not here! – they’ll turn the place upside down and find him, dragging me away to the scaffold, and him to Babylon. If I reveal his hiding-place to them, I’ll have saved my skin but not his. He, my brother-in-law, is a man of substance and five children depend on him. Whereas I, by contrast – I’m childless and utterly useless.

  “In those tense moments of fear and anxiety and indecision, I hear myself answering the soldiers: ‘I am Jacob Ben-Eliezer the tanner!’

  “A wild hoot of laughter broke out among the soldiers, a laugh of satisfaction and relief at a task successfully performed, or the finding of something that was supposed to be lost. In the gloom they couldn’t see me properly or estimate my age, and even if they had seen me, they wouldn’t have noticed the deception, as they didn’t know what my brother-in-law looked like or how old he was.

  ‘By command of the King of Kings, Nebuchadnezzar his name, pack your belongings at once and come with us. Fortune has smiled on you and you are to be numbered among the tanners of the glorious metropolis of Babylon, serving the greatest king in the universe!’

  “Fortune has indeed smiled on me,” the older man sighed. “Here I am, as you see, with you – Gershon Ben Caleb Ben Judah, calligrapher of scrolls, supposed to be serving the greatest of all kings in the universe, Nebuchadnezzar his name – as a tanner! It seems to me that if I make it to Babylon, and I’m not even sure of that, all I have to look forward to is a sentence of death!”

  “Don’t dwell on the dark side, my friend,” the youth interposed: “After all, you saved a whole family from a cruel fate, and gave back to five children and a wife their father and husband and breadwinner!” They were both silent. Time passed.

  One after another the youths climbed onto the wagon and took their places. The sun blazed down, the air was hot and sultry. Outside, Azariah was still walking.

  One of the youths turned to him and asked something, but he wasn’t listening and didn’t respond. The vision of his father’s death as described to him by Gershon was trapped in his mind, and he could not rid himself of it.

  Yet again, perhaps for the tenth time, he saw everything that happened in the great hall of the palace, in all its most minute details, even those that were not mentioned in Gershon’s account. Such as, for example, the pallor of his father’s face, the pain reflected in his eyes, that he was so adept at suppressing, the pain of the arrows shot into him by the Chaldeans, arrows that could perhaps have been removed without causing further injury. It was all replayed in his mind’s eye, vivi
d and alive, as if had not been a wretched slave who witnessed the episode but he himself, in person, crouching there in the chilly weapons store, watching all, seeing all.

  He tried, and tried again, to detach himself from the series of images, to cleanse his mind of them, and could not do it. The bizarre spectacle repeated itself with searing clarity, with terrifying acuity.

  If… if… if only – he was ashamed to finish the sentence with the words: I had been there – for this was a childish thought and not a mature one. “But You were there!” – he hastened to declare – “You, my holy Father in Heaven, my God, You whose name is love, You who are love, true love overseeing all, defending all, controlling all. And if You were there, and things transpired in the way they transpired, and ended as they ended, it means that everything happened in the proper and the foreseen manner, and what happened had to happen, and it was the good and the right outcome for your faithful servant, none other than my father in the flesh, the minister Naimel, the dauntless warrior. In my heart there is not a shred of doubt that my father in the flesh, Naimel, who cleaved to You with all his heart and all his might, at all times and always, and loved You with a love strong as death, as indeed do I, accepted what You decreed for him with gratitude, with joy and with love, and was aware of Your presence in those fateful moments, and came to You with joy and gladness, and sanctified Your name. And although he has left behind his broken body – He is in your presence and will be united with You forever, and be an inseparable part of Your living light!”

  Taurus Mountains

  The road was straighter now, and the jolting less troublesome. Gershon dozed, while his fellow-travellers in the wagon whispered among themselves, trying not to wake him.

  With an agile movement, gripping the side panel of the wagon for support, Daniel made his way to the aperture and jumped down into the dazzling light of a ferocious summer sun.